Waterdeep (33 page)

Cyric stood before a small inn, his horse’s reins in his hand. The inn was located in the barren prairie between Dragonspear Castle and Daggersford. The tavern and lodge were in a stone building standing in the shade of six maples. The stable sat fifty yards to the west, its corral built over a small stream that provided a constant supply of fresh water.

But the stream was now clogged by dead livestock, and the stable had burned to the ground. At the tavern, the sign of the Roosting Gryphon lay on the snow, half-burned and illegible. The shutters were smashed and splintered, and wisps of greasy smoke drifted out the open windows.

Is there anything for me? the thief’s sword asked, the words forming inside his mind as if they were his own thoughts.

“I doubt it,” Cyric answered. “But I’ll look around.” He and the sword - he thought of it as a “she” - had fallen into the habit of addressing each other as companions - even friends, if such a thing were possible.

Please - anything will do. I’m withering.

“I’ll try,” Cyric replied sincerely. “I’m hungry, too.”

Neither of them had eaten since stealing the horse from the six hapless warriors who had “rescued” Cyric. The thief suspected the sword was in far worse shape than he was. For the first part of their fast, the sword had used its dark powers to keep him from feeling the effects of hunger. After Dragonspear Castle, however, she had grown too weak to continue sustaining the thief.

That had been two days ago. Now, Cyric’s belly ached with hunger and he was lightheaded and weak with exhaustion. Both he and the sword needed sustenance.

But there had been no chance to feed. After Midnight’s attempt to kill him, Cyric had entered the tower, intending to chase Midnight and Kelemvor wherever they went. But as he started down the stairs, the zombies had emerged with the tablet. The thief had assumed that Kelemvor and Midnight had died at the undead creatures’ rotting hands.

He had turned to follow the zombies, determined to steal the tablet from them at the first opportunity. So far, the undead caravan drivers had not given him a chance. They had marched far into the snowy plain west of the road, where they would not be observed by passing caravans. Then they had turned north and started walking at a plodding, relentless pace, and had not stopped since.

Finally, because the caravan road ran northwest and the zombies had continued marching straight north, they had intersected the road near the inn. From a hiding place in the snow, Cyric had watched the undead raze the inn before resuming their relentless march. Although the thief was not sure why they had destroyed the tavern, he suspected it had been a mistake. By traveling so far off the road, the zombies were clearly taking pains to avoid detection. They had probably been instructed to kill anyone who saw them. So, when they ran across the inn, they had sacked it. Of course, destroying an establishment on a well-used road would hardly keep their presence secret, but zombies were not smart enough to think of that detail.

Anyway, now that the undead had disappeared over the horizon, Cyric thought it was safe to see if they had left anything behind. He tied his horse to a maple tree then entered the tavern. A dozen bodies littered the floor, scattered between tables and in the corners. It appeared the men had tried to fight the zombies off with fire, for expired torches lay strewn about the dirt floor. In several places, the torches had touched something flammable, causing fires that still smoldered here and there. It looked as though the flames had fallen just short of engulfing the inn.

“How do you feel about drinking blood from the dead?” Cyric asked his sword.

How do you feel about it? she replied. Does anybody look good to you?

“I’m not that hungry,” Cyric answered, disgusted.

I am, the sword said flatly.

Cyric unsheathed his sword then went over to the corpse of a burly woman wearing an apron. In her hand was the handle of a butcher knife, but the blade had been snapped off. Her throat was bruised where a zombie had choked her. Cyric knelt at her side, preparing to slip his sword between the corpse’s ribs,

“She’s dead,” said a man’s strained voice. “They all are!”

Cyric quickly rose and turned around. A balding, portly man stood in the doorway, a loaded crossbow in his hands.

“Don’t shoot,” Cyric said, slowly raising his hands. He assumed the man had seen enough to guess that his intentions were not honorable. The thief was merely looking for a way to stall until he could turn the advantage his way. “This isn’t what you think.”

The portly man frowned. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so afraid?” The man did not suspect Cyric of anything nefarious. He was in shock and had forgotten the effect that holding a lethal weapon would have on other people.

Gathering his wits, Cyric nodded at the crossbow. “I thought you might have mistaken me for-“

“For a zombie?” the man scoffed, looking at his crossbow and blushing. “I’m not that rattled.”

The fat man stepped behind the bar and laid the weapon down. “Will you join me in a draft - compliments of the house? As you see, I’m out of business.”

Cyric sheathed his sword and went to the bar. “I’d be happy to.”

The portly man poured Cyric a mug of ale, then set it on the counter and poured himself one. “I’m called Farl,” he said, offering his hand.

Cyric took the hand. “Well met. I’m Cyric,” he replied, forcing as much warmth as he could into his voice. “How did you survive this…”

The fat man frowned. “Zombie attack,” he muttered flatly. “I was in the basement when it happened. Just lucky, I guess.”

The thief narrowed his eyes and stared at the innkeeper for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I guess you were lucky.”

“Yes, well, here’s to luck, Cyric!” Farl called, draining his mug.

After watching Farl empty his mug in a single gulp, Cyric tipped his own. Unfortunately, his empty stomach rebelled at the strong brew and he could not finish it. He sat the mug down and braced himself against the bar.

“Are you ill?” Farl asked absently. At the moment, he was still too stunned and shocked to feel any real concern for a stranger, but he was too observant a host not to take notice of his guest’s condition.

“Nay,” Cyric replied. “I haven’t eaten in a week.”

“That’s too bad,” Farl muttered automatically, pouring himself another mug. He downed it in one long gulp then belched quietly into his sleeve. Finally, it occurred to the fat man that Cyric might like something to eat.

“Wait here,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head at his negligence. “I’ll fetch you something from what remains of the kitchen.” He poured another ale and left the room.

Farl is a juicy morsel, the sword urged.

“Aye, he is. But you’ll have to wait your turn,” Cyric said.

I can’t wait any longer!

“I’ll decide how long you can wait,” the thief snapped.

I’m fading.

Cyric did not answer. He felt foolish for arguing with a sword. More importantly, he found her demanding tone offensive. But he also knew that the sword was being truthful. The color of her blade had faded to white.

Without me, you wouldn’t have recovered from Bhaal’s wounds, the sword insisted. Do you want me to starve?

“I won’t let you starve,” Cyric said patiently. “But I’ll decide what I feed you.”

Farl came shuffling back to the door, a large tray in his hand. “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

You owe me Farl! the sword hissed. The words were hot and urgent in Cyric’s thoughts.

“I was talking to myself,” the thief said. “It’s one of the hazards of riding alone.”

Farl sat the tray on the counter. He had assembled the best his kitchen had to offer: roast goose, stewed tomatoes, pickled beets, dried apples. “Have a feast,” he said. “It’ll just go to waste if you don’t eat it.”

“Then I’ll eat until my horse can’t carry me,” Cyric replied, noting that Farl had brought all the food he would need for some time to come. “Could I have another mug of ale to wash it down?”

“Of course,” Farl muttered, taking the mug and filling it. “Have all you like.” He smiled weakly.

“Rest assured,” Cyric replied. He accepted the mug with one hand and drew his sword with the other. “I will.”

The thief reached across the food and struck quickly. He plunged the blade into the fat man’s chest while the innkeeper’s lips were still twisted in a feeble smile.

Farl made one feeble grab for his crossbow. Then, his brow raised in puzzlement and he collapsed behind the counter. So the blade would stay imbedded in the man’s breast, Cyric released his sword’s hilt.

The thief grabbed a piece of goose and took a large bite out of it. Then he leaned over the counter and looked at his sword. Speaking around a mouthful of cold meat, he said, “Enjoy your meal.”

As she stepped through the disc, Midnight felt herself disappear from Kanaglym, then reappear on the white plain. Her mind felt as if it had not moved at all, as if it were an anchor and her body had pivoted around it.

As soon as Midnight inhaled, caustic vapors burned her throat and nose. When she tried to focus her eyes, she saw nothing but white and might as well have been looking into the sun. The ground quivered beneath her feet like something alive and restless, and a million droning voices set the air buzzing with a murmur that made her skin tingle.

Gradually, Midnight’s vision returned. The worldwalk’s shimmering disc hung in the air next to her. It did not seem wise to leave a portal between the planes open, so the mage concentrated on closing it and the gateway disappeared.

A moment later, she began to make sense of the weird information her senses were gathering. She stood on an endless, chalky plain, in the midst of more people than she could count. Unlike the soul spectres of Kanaglym - these creatures possessed material, tangible bodies. Had she not known otherwise, the magic-user would have thought the people on the plain were alive.

To the mage’s right was a huge crowd of several thousand. Everyone in the throng faced one direction, their attention fixed on the sky as though watching something Midnight could not see. As she studied the mass of spirits, a murmur rose from its far side, racing toward her like a wave on a stormy ocean. Finally, it broke over her with such volume that she grimaced.

“Tyr!” the crowd called.

Thousands of worshipers had simultaneously called the name of their lord. Midnight could easily imagine the cry crossing the interplanar void and reaching Tyr’s ears back in the Realms.

“O Tyr, God of Justice, Balancer of the Scales, answer this, the call of your faithful,” the worshipers cried, their prayer clear and understandable despite the number of mouths speaking the words. “When will you deliver us, we who dedicated our lives to your glory, to spreading truth and justice into every corner of our planet, Toril? Hear the appeal of your worshipers, Tyr. Look! Here is Mishkul the Mighty, who brought King Lagost to justice; and here is Ornik the Wise, who judged between the cities of Yhaunn and Tulbegh, and here is Qurat of Proskur, who…”

The prayer droned on, proclaiming the loyalty of Tyr’s worshipers and listing the accomplishments of each one. Judging from the size of the mob, the litany would continue for days. The mage moved away from the crowd, searching for a hint as to Bone Castle’s location.

Often, she encountered huddled groups of people ranging from five or six to ten thousand. In one instance, Midnight encountered a dozen women flailing themselves and screaming devotion to Loviatar, Lady of Pain. Another time, she met a thousand worshipers of Ilmater standing shoulder to shoulder in resolute silence. Occasionally, she saw groups singing praises to gods so ancient their names had been forgotten in the Realms.

Several hours of wandering later, Midnight realized that she would never find her way around the Realm of the Dead without directions. Stopping a rotund man, she asked, “Can you tell me how to find Bone Castle?”

His eyes opened wide in fear. “No - no, I can’t!” he snapped. “Why would I know where it is - and why would you want to?” He abruptly turned and fled into the crowd.

Midnight stopped three more people and asked them the same question. The reactions of all three were strikingly similar, each claimed ignorance of the castle’s location, and each told her in no uncertain terms that she was a fool for asking. The mage decided to stop inquiring about the castle. For some reason, her question disturbed the dead.

To Midnight’s left, someone screamed in terror. The magic-user spun toward the sound. Thirty feet away, a mound of flesh was attacking a woman. The crowd had cleared away from the struggle, so Midnight had a clear view of the conflict.

The woman appeared to have been about forty years of age, with hair as black as Midnight’s, save that it was streaked with gray. More interesting to the magic-user was the woman’s pendant: a blue-white star within a circle.

Mystra’s symbol.

The woman’s attacker was a hideous thing. Its head resembled that of a man, with a normal nose, mouth, and ears. But it also had dull fangs that drooled yellow bile and eyes that glowed as red as hot embers. The head sat atop a grotesque body thicker around than a hogshead cask, and long, gangling arms hung from its shoulders. Spongy masses of leathery hide bulged where muscles should have been, and old wounds oozed a foul green pus in a dozen places. The creature’s legs were so pudgy they barely held its body off the ground. Still, the mound of flesh tottered after the woman with remarkable speed and grace.

“Come here, hag!” it growled. The beast’s voice was so low and guttural that Midnight barely understood the words. In one hand the fat blob carried a rusty scimitar, and in the other a pair of manacles that it waved after the woman.

Because she knew so little about the Realm of the Dead, the mage hesitated to involve herself, but that indecision didn’t last for long. She could not allow an attack on one of Mystra’s followers. “Leave her alone!” Midnight yelled.

Upon hearing the mage’s words, the woman fled toward her. The thing stopped in its tracks, then frowned and shook its head as if it were unable to believe what it had heard. Finally, it grumbled, “She belongs to Lord Myrkul.”